working at the Henny Penny;
plus a spot at Camp Barracuda
with mandatory summer practices;
and a beautiful girlfriend
named Georgia.
I really, really do not know
where that last lie came from.
Liam would be totally disgusted.
Georgia probably would be, too.
RATS
I think something bigger
than a mouse
ran across my bed
last night.
Even though my foot is bandaged
with layers of gauze and tape,
I could feel
its heavy warmth
scrambling.
Aside from being extremely creepy,
rats carry all kinds of diseases.
I may not be able
to leave Bullhead,
but I refuse
to sleep
inside
this
house
anymore
either.
Thank goodness
the tree house
is almost ready.
Until then
the car
will do.
T-MINUS 13
At least Liam
hasn’t maxed out
his three strikes.
At least I won’t be
totally alone
with truly nowhere
to go this summer
if I stay in Arizona.
FIELD DAY
In spite of the Hoard’s filth,
I keep my injury clean.
I change my bandages meticulously,
apply the antibiotic cream
like the doctor instructed.
Thanks to this,
my foot heals
just in time
for Field Day,
when all the grades
play outside together—
kickball,
egg-and-spoon races,
tug-of-war.
Instead of mystery meat,
the lunch ladies serve
hot dogs and hamburgers
and Popsicles
that turn our tongues
red, blue, orange.
There’s even a dunk tank
(which seems like a drowning hazard).
Principal Rodriguez sits bravely inside
wearing a shirt, tie, and swim trunks
(which are not Wedgie Makers, thankfully).
The other teachers wear
weird clothes, too,
like jeans and T-shirts and sneakers.
Ms. Treehorn even brings
her fiancé,
some guy she calls
Charlie.
He calls her
Annie.
When they don’t think we’re looking,
I see their fingertips touch.
Turns out
he’s actually
that archaeologist named Charles.
It’s a little strange
to think about
Ms. Treehorn
having a life
outside
our classroom.
Sometimes I forget
that grown-ups
are just
regular
people.
∞ ∞ ∞
Ms. Treehorn takes me aside.
I want you to have this.
She presses the trilobite fossil into my palm.
Isn’t this special to you?
Yes, but Charlie gave me a new stone.
Her eyes twinkle
like the shiny ring on her hand.
Her happiness is infectious,
and soon I feel like a balloon
filled with warm air.
Not so full that I’ll pop,
but just full enough
that I spend the rest of the day
floating
next to puffy clouds,
and maybe Mom,
in the wide-open blue.
STRIKE THREE
Liam thought it would be funny
to fill some of the Field Day water balloons
with paint.
It was washable paint, but still,
it’s no surprise
that Principal Rodriguez doesn’t appreciate
Liam’s sense of humor.
Especially now that he has to drive
a hot-pink-splattered
pickup truck
across town
to the nearest car wash.
∞ ∞ ∞
I think I’m more upset
about Liam’s summer school verdict
than Principal Rodriguez
or Sharon
or even Liam.
TUG-OF-WAR
Aunt Lydia’s messages flood my inbox.
She says she doesn’t understand.
I want to tell her
neither do I.
I feel like that rope
we used for tug-of-war— —pulled in opposite directions
—fraying in the middle—
T-MINUS 6
I wonder if
taking something away
from the vacant lot
is causing all this
bad luck in my life.
I can’t return the scorpions—
they’re living in a glass tank
in the sixth-grade science lab.
But I do have the fossil Ms. Treehorn gave me,
which also came from that same
sacred place.
RETURN
To my surprise,
the fences are gone.
The ground looks like a blanket
spread out for picnicking,
infinite in every direction
until it meets the horizon,
where waves of heat
sew blue and brown together.
I lay the fossil down,
cover it
with a handful of warm sand.
Its home has changed dramatically,
but this is where
it belongs.
I wish I felt
the same.
T-MINUS 1
Today is the last day of school,
which means tonight is
our first official sleepover
in the tree house.
When I tell Dad
my friends are coming over,
he gets squirrely
until I assure him
we’ll stay outside.
Before Liam and Georgia arrive,
I gather bug spray and flashlights.
I make sure the path from the backyard to the
guest bathroom is clear.
I stock a cooler with snacks and drinks.
Mom always made cocoa
when my friends slept over,
a cozy treat even though Bullhead is rarely chilly.
Dad asks if he should do the same.
I’m shocked and touched
that he remembers
this small, nearly forgotten detail from Before.
But I can’t imagine we have the ingredients
and I really don’t want to serve anything
that comes out of our kitchen,
so I pass as politely as possible.
NIGHT SKY
The weather is perfect.
The sky clear.
A breeze dances,
twists.
I’m doing my best
not to think
about
what happens
after tomorrow.
∞ ∞ ∞
Georgia insists
we keep our
sleepy eyes
open
to watch
constellations
fill the dark spaces
between leaves.
There are so many ways
to connect
those spots of light.
So many shapes
and stories
up there,
depending on how
you draw the lines.
I see a cheeseburger! Liam says,
staring at the stars.
That’s the Big Dipper, you dope! I laugh.
Hmm. Well, maybe I just smell a cheeseburger.
Actually…I smell it, too. Georgia sniffs the air.
Is your dad making us some late-night bites?
That would be awesome!
My dad? Doubtful.
The leaves rustle.
The breeze shifts.
I smell it now, too.
Smoke.
Coming from my house.
∞ ∞ ∞
I take the ladder
two rungs at a time.
Wow. Someone really wants a burger, Liam says.
My dad’s not barbecuing! I yell.
I wince in pain
as my recently healed foot
hits the ground.
I race toward the house,
trying to figure out
what’s going on.
The windows are all dark.
Dad must be sleeping.
The smell of smoke intensifies.
An alarm begins to wail
from somewhere inside.
Do you have your cell phone? I shout back to Liam.
Yeah, but it’s just for emergencies, he hollers.
This is an emergency!
Oh! Who should I call?
Georgia, help Liam figure out
the number for 911!
I reach the front door,
uncertain and afraid
of what I might find
lurking behind.
SMOKE
I wrench and pull the doorknob.
The stupid latch is jammed.
I aim high, kick the hardware
with my good foot,
once, twice.
It won’t budge.
I angle my shoulders and
heave my body forward.
I fall into pillows
of thick smoke.
Somewhere in the distance
I hear Georgia scream.
I hope she won’t follow me inside.
∞ ∞ ∞
A box of powdered cocoa,
three ceramic mugs,
a blackened teakettle, forgotten.
Flames from the stove
leap, flicker, smolder,
moving greedily across the counter
where the cooking oil spilled weeks ago.
A gust of wind flings the front door open.
Emboldened, the flames begin
gobbling the curtains,
licking the walls,
devouring the papers,
the trash,
the so-called treasures.
I race to the sink,
fill the first container I can find.
I’m about to douse the flames,
when I remember
water makes grease fires worse.
Dad! I shriek, my throat raw.
The smoke stings my eyes.
I frantically search for a fire extinguisher
but it’s impossible
to find anything in this mess.
Desperate, I grab a wool sweater
from the pile of second-hand clothes
on the kitchen table
to smother the flames.
But garbage makes good fuel
and the fire grows
too fast,
too wild
for me and some lousy sweater
to extinguish
on our own.
I drop to my hands and knees,
move across the filthy floor
where the smoke isn’t so thick.
I make it to Dad’s bedroom.
The door’s closed.
I press my hand to the wood
to make sure
there’s no fire
hiding behind it.
I cover my mouth and nose
with my shirt
then stand and turn the handle.
∞ ∞ ∞
Dad’s in bed,
deep asleep,
a pillow covering his ears.
I shake him awake.
He rolls over,
eyes wild.
Bud! What is it?
What’s happening?
We have to get out of here! I shout,
between the alarm’s piercing wail.
He sits up, disoriented,
disheveled.
I grab his hand,
pull him out of bed.
The cocoa! he shouts.
I was going to surprise you—oh! No!
I completely forgot about it!
We make it halfway down the hall
when something crackles and explodes.
The kitchen glows orange and angry.
There’s no way
we can escape
through the front door now.
ALTERNATE ROUTE
I show Dad how to crawl
below the layer of smoke,
growing thicker each second.
A wall of garbage
blocks our path.
I hurl trash out of the way.
I pull him toward the back door
only to meet my barricade.
I think we can break down the barrier
together
if we move quickly.
Help me!
I can’t do this alone!
But Dad’s not with me anymore.
I scramble, coughing,
back down the hall.
Dad! Dad?
I see him
frantically ripping binders
from the shelves
in the living room.
What are you doing?
Leave them!
I can’t! he cries.
Flames leap
into the room with a
frightening
WHOOSH!
The couch becomes
a blazing fireball.
Dad! Stop!
He turns.
The back of his shirt
catches fire.
I tackle him,
dragging him to the ground,
using muscle memory
and super-strength
I didn’t even know I had.
Stop! Drop! Roll!
I shout, tamping out the flames.
He pulls himself to his feet,
staggers toward the shelves again,
like a zombie, possessed.
I need these!
He clutches several binders
under each arm.
No, you don’t!
The Hoard fizzles, bursts, flares
all around us.
Yes, Collin!
I do!
I need them!
I need YOU! I scream.
If we don’t get out soon,
all this stuff
will become our funerary o
bjects.
Don’t you understand? I cry louder,
pleading with him.
Beams and floorboards
moan and creak
in distress.
Dad and I
can barely see each other
through the smoke.
Finally
I hear the thud
of binders
falling to the floor.
I feel his hand reach for mine.
Blue light
slashes through burned curtains.
A new siren wails.
Help is coming.
4
I cough and cough and cough,
but at least
I’m breathing.
I stagger
toward my friends.
We cling to each other,
counting:
one, two, three.
Dad makes four.
One. Two. Three.
Four.
My new favorite number.
COLORS
Orange
pulse.
Black sky.
Blue
strobe.
White stars.
Yellow
tape.
Black smoke.
Red
trucks.
White moon.
SWIRL
Fire engines, police cars,
ambulances
flood our street
with howling horns,
flashing lights, gushing hoses.
People in uniforms
fuss over us.
Others bravely try to tame
a hungry, wild red-hot fire
on a dry, windy night.
I’m dazed,
probably
in shock,
my mouth empty
of words
and letters.
Instead
I’m finding comfort
in numbers
for the first time
in my life.
Counting to four
over and over
and over again.
One, two, three.
Liam, Georgia, me.
Dad makes four.
Dad makes four.
Dad makes four.
Dad makes four.
RELIEF
A crowd gathers.
Our neighbors
wear bathrobes, slippers,
disbelief,
fear.
And then,
seeing us
safe—
relief.
I don’t know
how much time
has passed.
Seconds?
Minutes?
Maybe even
Worst-Case Collin Page 15
